


The Siren's Call

by Antheas_Blackberry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Intimacy, M/M, Post TFP, Self-Harm, Self-Loathing, Sex, Sexual Content, Stressful Situations, Suicide Attempt (mention), TW: Blood, TW: mention of possible eating disorder (background only really), school bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-06 09:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10331228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry
Summary: After the Sherrinford debacle, Mycroft Holmes returns to an old coping mechanism to get through.





	1. Pain

**Author's Note:**

> TW: self harm and spoilers for The Final Problem. This was part of my drabble series, but as it looks like it will be going multiple chapters I've made it a standalone piece.

The first time Mycroft did it, he had just watched his sister nearly kill Sherlock. He was shaking, trembling from the adrenaline, and needed the pain to ground him. He swore he would never do it again.

The second time Mycroft did it was after he hid his sister away, and informed his parents that Eurus was dead. He needed to feel alive; he needed to feel something other than the sick regret in the pit of his stomach, eating away at him like acid. He swore that he would never do it again.

The third time Mycroft did it was the first time Sherlock overdosed and was clinging to life in a hospital bed. He sat shaking in a toilet stall and watched the blood flow. He swore this was the last time; that he would find a better coping mechanism.

The fourth time Mycroft did it was when Uncle Rudy was laid to rest. Mycroft didn’t feel anything at all, just the stainless steel blade as it touched his pale skin. He watched the blood bubble up and run down his thigh, mixing with the tears he had refused to shed at the gravesite. He didn’t swear anything this time at all.  


Years passed and Mycroft found other ways to cope with the strain and stress of being the British Government, a brother, and a son. He binged on heavy pastries and then ran them off on the treadmill. He drank too much whiskey and smoked far too many cigarettes in front of old movies; all behaviours he could easily hide from prying eyes of his few superiors and Sherlock’s clever mind.

Home alone, after his subsequent rescue, Mycroft sat in his en suite, a half finished glass of whiskey beside him. Despite the strain and anguish of the day, he felt nothing at all. The siren’s call of former behaviours rang loud and he could feel his hands trembling as he picked up the blade. He could still see the faint scars of old on his thigh. He felt so little and so much at the same time. And, taking a deep breath, Mycroft pressed the blade to his skin.


	2. Darkness

When Greg arrived home, the house was shrouded in darkness. Exhausted, he hung up his coat, kicked off his shoes, and stood in the hall for a moment. Something felt wrong. He couldn’t explain it, it was just a feeling that he had. He knew Mycroft should be here by now as he had received a text from Anthea stating he had been cleared medically and was being driven home. 

Without thinking, he made his way upstairs. When he reached the bedroom, it too was dark, but there was a swath of light coming from the slightly ajar door of the en suite. This was extremely unusual, and an icy fear crept down Greg’s spine. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door.

All he could see at first was the blood. He hesitated for a split second, and then sprung into action. He grabbed a flannel and pressed it to Mycroft’s thigh, trying to stop the bloodflow. Greg could hear his heart pounding and his own blood rushing in his ears.

Mycroft lay there on the floor, paler than Greg had ever seen him before. He was relieved to see the even rise and fall of Mycroft’s chest. He swore under his breath, and risked a look at Mycroft’s leg, carefully removing the flannel. There were eight long cuts, all in a row. It looked worse than it was, thankfully; Greg didn’t even think he would require stitches. The cuts were already beginning to clot.

Before Greg could think about doing anything else, Mycroft began to stir. His eyes fluttered open and the first thing he saw was Greg looming over him, a look of panicked stricken grief across his face. “Gregory,” he said quietly, as he pushed himself up into a seated position.

Greg was speechless for several moments. He honestly did not know what to say. He looked at Mycroft as if he was trying to commit him to memory, and perhaps he was. 

Mycroft watched Greg go through a range of emotions. He waited for him to shout or get up and walk away. Yet, Greg did neither of those things. After a few minutes, Greg sank down next to Mycroft and pulled the younger man toward him, wrapping his arms around him tightly.

“Jesus, Mycroft,” Greg sobbed into Mycroft’s dressing gown. He had so many questions, but right now he was so overwhelmed; all he could do was to hold on tight to his partner.

Mycroft, exhausted and lightheaded, allowed himself to be held.


	3. Quiet

They were both quiet for a moment, until Mycroft broke the silence. “While I am pleased to have you beside me, I believe I’ve done enough laying on floors for one day.”

Greg got to his feet and helped Mycroft to his. He silently began to clean the blood off Mycroft’s leg until he was free from bloodstains. He then applied antiseptic and bandages carefully to the eight cuts. He took a deep, shuddering breath before he spoke. “Why don’t you go and change? I’ll clean up in here.”

Nodding, Mycroft got to his feet and made his way carefully into the bedroom. Greg began to clean up the bloodstains on the floor and tossed away the flannel and towel he used; he didn’t want to see them ever again. He made sure that the bathroom was clean before he washed his hands and face. He looked in the mirror and saw that there was dried blood on his shirt and trousers. He removed them and stuffed them in the hamper before he entered the bedroom.

Mycroft was sitting on the bed in his pyjamas and dressing gown, looking down at the carpet. Greg went to the bureau and pulled out a t-shirt, pulling it over his head. He sank down on the bed next to Mycroft. “Do you want a cup of tea or something to eat?” 

Mycroft shook his head, grimacing at the thought of food. “No, thank you,” he replied quietly. “While I probably will not be able to sleep, I am exhausted. I would very much like to lay down.” The ‘with you’ was implied.

Greg nodded and rose, walking to the top of the bed. Mycroft joined him, removing his dressing gown. Greg pulled back the duvet and climbed into bed. Mycroft followed, turning off the light on the bedside table.

Once they were settled beneath the duvet, Greg wasted no time pulling Mycroft toward him, holding him tight. He pressed a kiss to his forehead. “You bloody scared me, you know,” Greg whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.

Mycroft turned in his arms, so he was resting with his head over Greg’s heart, listening to the reassuring sound of his heartbeat. He whispered into the night. “I’m sorry.”


	4. Tears

Somehow Greg fell into an uneasy sleep, drained from the exhaustion of the day, and the subsequent emotional toil. He was aware that he was dreaming, but only just. Mycroft was in a pool of blood and he couldn’t reach him. He was running, faster and faster, but he couldn’t get there.

Greg could hear Mycroft calling his name and the dream slipped away as the younger man shook him awake. He took several deep breaths as he came back into himself. He ran a hand across his face and it came away wet; he’d been crying in his sleep.

Mycroft had turned the light by the bedside table on. It was very dim in the darkness of the night, and Greg thought that Mycroft looked older somehow. He looked worried, and there was a haunted look in his eyes. 

Mycroft turned away and reached for the tissues, plucking a couple and pressing them into Greg’s hand. Greg looked down at the offering, confused and sleep fuddled at first, before wiping his eyes and nose. He crumpled the tissues into a ball and stared down at his hands.

“My apologies, Gregory,” Mycroft finally said. “It appears that my actions have affected you more than I ever thought possible.”  
Greg didn’t reply right away. He stared at the tissues in his hands for a few moments and then he sighed heavily. He didn’t think he would be able to sleep again, not after that nightmare. “I’m going to go make a cuppa. Do you want one?”

“Yes, I believe I do. May I accompany you downstairs?”

Greg was glad Mycroft wanted to come downstairs with him. He really didn’t want to leave him out of his sight, not yet anyways. Greg nodded, and they both rose from their bed, gathered their dressing gowns, and made their way downstairs to the kitchen.

Mycroft had a feeling that there would be some hard questions he would need to answer in the coming hours. He was not sure Greg would understand the lure, the desire, the need that he had at times. Additionally, he hoped that this would not signal the end of their relationship. That was something that he could not bear to think about, not at that moment.


	5. Haunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, TW for self harm and suicide and also bullying and attempted murder

While Greg prepared their tea, Mycroft went into the sitting room and lit a fire. He was chilled from the blood loss and he thought it might be a comfort to them both. He was standing in front of the fire, appreciating his efforts, when Greg came in with a tray laden with tea and toast.

“I know you said you couldn’t eat anything, but I thought you might want some anyways,” Greg said, putting the tray down on the coffee table.

Mycroft did not reply. He continued to stare into the fire for a moment and then turned and sat down on the couch beside Greg, who was pouring tea into thick cream coloured mugs. He gave the toast a wary glance, but selected the least buttered slice he could find, a consideration to his vision which was starting to blur at the edges.

Greg glanced at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye. He was glad Mycroft was eating something. He couldn’t recall the last time he had seen the younger man eat anything. He grabbed a thick, heavily buttered slice for himself and took a large bite, butter dripping down his chin. Mycroft rolled his eyes, but handed Greg a napkin from the tray.

Greg chuckled, snatched a second slice of toast and then licked the butter from his fingers. Mycroft finished his toast and then picked up his mug of tea and cradled it in his hands. They were both quiet for several moments, the only sound the gentle crackling of the fire.

“It started a long time ago.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet, haunted.

“It was becoming more and more difficult to hide Eurus’s behaviours from my parents. She nearly killed Sherlock. . . .“ Mycroft took a sip of tea and then returned the mug to the table.

Greg gave a soft, sharp intake of breath. 

Mycroft shivered despite the fire and Greg’s warm presence in close proximity. Greg reached over and took Mycroft’s hand, finding it ice cold.

“You don’t have to go on,” Greg said gently.

Mycroft shook his head. “You deserve to know.”

“If I had been a second slower in reacting when she pushed Sherlock down the stairs,” Mycroft said sadly. “I do not want to think about what might have happened.”

Mycroft stared into the fire trying to keep the emotions rising to the surface from breaking, like waves crashing on the shore. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“Is that when. . . .” Greg began.

Mycroft nodded. “I separated them and ensured Sherlock was safe and unharmed. I locked Eurus in her room and let Sherlock fall asleep in mine.” He paused for a moment and swallowed hard, regretting the toast he had just eaten.

He continued, his voice much quieter. “Once the house was quiet I was still very unsettled and anxious. I could feel my heart racing despite the fact that my heart rate was not elevated. I wanted it all to stop; Eurus, Sherlock, everything. And I wanted to feel something that was not fear.” 

Mycroft went silent again for a moment. Greg squeezed the hand he was still holding. Mycroft turned to him and gave him a faint, weak smile before continuing. “I wanted the clarity that I knew the pain would give me.”

Greg took all of this information in, and came to a conclusion. “You had done something like that before then,” he said softly.

Mycroft nodded. “Before I was sent away to school, I attended school locally. It was a very painful time for me.”

“You were bullied?”

“Yes, quite severely. It went on for months and I was tormented physically and emotionally. My parents thought I needed to toughen up.” Mycroft scoffed at his last statement, as if he was still in disbelief after all these years.

“So, when the recommendation was made that I should just kill myself. . . well at the time it seemed like a reasonable suggestion.” 

Greg was stunned by all of this, and he wanted nothing more than to take Mycroft into his arms and hold him until all of this vanished into the ether. And then he wanted to find all of the boys that hurt Mycroft and punch their lights out, but he knew that wouldn’t solve anything. He also knew that Mycroft had more to say, so he remained silent for the time being. 

“I was obviously unsuccessful, but the experience and the clarity it gave me was absolutely astonishing. I felt I could see things clearly; school, my parents, Eurus, everything.” Mycroft sighed heavily, drained from the emotional upheaval of the day and from the strain of keeping himself in control while he recounted his formative years to Greg.

“Mycroft,” Greg said, but he was cut off.

“Please allow me to finish,” Mycroft said, his voice filled with tension.

“It became a coping mechanism for a time. The pain gave me peace and clarity and it allowed me to feel something when I could no longer feel anything at all. As I grew older, I found other ways to clear my mind, that were somewhat safer and more hygienic. And when I was recruited into the services, I learned a wide variety of strategies that made these other coping mechanisms pale in comparison.” Exhausted, Mycroft leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes.

“Until today,” Greg said quietly.

Mycroft opened his eyes. “Until today.”


	6. Exhaustion

“What you witnessed, Gregory; you should have never seen that. I am deeply sorry,” Mycroft said softly. 

“So, what you’re telling me is that you would have cut yourself and then cleaned up without saying a bloody word about it at all?” The anger Greg had been feeling but supressed up until now gushed out in his words. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft began.

“No, Mycroft. Just stop. Stop!” Greg rose to his feet, running his hand through his hair and began to pace. 

Mycroft was silent as requested as he watched his partner pace back and forth in front of the fireplace.  
Greg paced for a few more minutes, muttering under his breath. What he was saying, Mycroft couldn’t quite make out, but he did not think that it was very favourable.

Finally, Greg stopped and sank back down on to the couch and put his head in his hands. “Why didn’t you say something? I would have sat with you, held you, done whatever you needed to feel safe. Jesus, Mycroft. Why couldn’t you just talk to me?”

“It was never about feeling safe. It was about regaining control.” Mycroft’s voice was faint but defensive.

Greg sighed heavily and raked a hand through his already mussed hair. He didn’t know what to do or say right now, as no matter what it was it would be wrong. And while this undoubtedly not about him, what happened with Mycroft did affect him and their life together. He risked a glance at Mycroft and he was horrified at how exhausted his partner looked. 

Taking a breath, he further studied Mycroft. He was so pale that his freckles were more prominent than usual, and the fine lines around his eyes seemed deeper than just a few days ago. The extreme stress and strain that Mycroft had undergone was clearly evident and Greg knew that he should put his own fears and anxieties to the side right now. It was difficult, because every time he closed his eyes, he saw Mycroft lying in a pool of blood. If he had been delayed in any way, he thought, his eyes unexpectedly prickling with tears.

A sudden sneeze from Mycroft pulled Greg out of his melancholy and he quickly blinked his tears away. “Bless you.” he said, startled.

Mycroft looked as surprised as Greg. “Thank you. My apologies.” He sniffed and shook his head as if to clear it. 

Greg frowned, studying Mycroft intently again. “Are you feeling ok?”

“As I said earlier, I believe I spent far too much time lying on floors today.” He looked over at the clock. “Rather, yesterday. Although the floor on the island was much colder.” And more damp and terrifying, Mycroft thought to himself. He was unable to suppress the shudder that wracked his slender frame.

Greg squeezed Mycroft’s arm gently. “Let’s get you up to bed.”

Greg rose and quickly banked the fire. Then, he led Mycroft upstairs to their bedroom. 

They took turns in the en suite; Mycroft first, then Greg. When Greg came to bed, he handed a glass of water and a pill to Mycroft. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“The doctor wouldn’t have prescribed them if he didn’t think it was necessary. Besides, when is the last time you slept?”

“I was unconscious for several hours,” Mycroft began.

“That’s not the same thing and you know it,” Greg said sternly. And you didn’t answer the question, he thought to himself.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but he took the pill and swallowed it down with a mouthful of water regardless.

“You need to rest, Mycroft. Otherwise I wouldn’t have pressed the matter. I don’t want you getting ill on top of it either.”

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. “I’m perfectly fine, Gregory.”

This time it was Greg’s turn to roll his eyes in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“I am not the one who had a nightmare,” Mycroft countered, his voice filled with irritation.

Greg quelled his rising anger. He was exhausted and wanted to try and get some sleep himself. He only could do that if he knew Mycroft was doing the same. He yawned broadly.

“Let’s just try and get some sleep, love.”

Mycroft could see how tired Greg was and he wasn’t exactly full of vim and vigour himself at the moment. He could feel the pill starting to work. His limbs suddenly felt heavy and his head felt as if it was full of cotton wool.

“Very well,” Mycroft said. With effort, he leaned over and turned off the lamp next to his bedside and Greg did the same with his, leaving a faint, diffused light escaping between a slight part in the curtains on the other side of the room.

In those few moments, it had felt like a gulf had opened up between them, despite being in such close proximity. Greg didn’t want to fall asleep angry, if he was even able to sleep at all despite the exhaustion dragging him down.

He reached for Mycroft and pulled him close, the younger man’s head on his chest. Greg was immediately relieved when Mycroft didn’t pull away.

Greg felt Mycroft settle in his arms and slowly but surely the sleeping pill did its job; Mycroft’s breaths becoming even as he was lulled to sleep by the steady and reassuring beat of Greg’s heart.

In the dim light he felt, more than watched Mycroft’s even breaths as he slept. As exhausted as Greg was, he kept watch over him until his own eyelids grew heavy and Morpheus overtook him into oblivion.


	7. Uneasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, some potentially upsetting and triggering scenes ahead. TW: suicide attempt, blood.

Mycroft was still overwhelmingly uneasy and he felt like the walls were closing in on him. It was hard to feel safe in his own home after what Sherlock had put him through, not to mention the strain of Eurus’s escape and the torture she put them through.

It was a reminder of how he felt after the house fire, after Sherlock’s overdose, after Uncle Rudy. . . .

He could feel his thoughts and emotions spiralling out of control. His heart was racing, pounding like the horses on the track at Ascot. His vision blurred and swam, and a wave of nausea crashed over him like the waves on the boat on the way to Sherrinford. Mycroft gripped the counter in front of him and held on for dear life.

He tried to breathe evenly, but the pounding in his chest only became greater. He swallowed against the queasiness and closed his eyes, hoping to regain his focus, but he still felt overwhelmed; lightheaded and dizzy.

When he finally opened his eyes, everything was still blurry and out of focus. He blinked rapidly several times, trying to clear his vision but it did not help. He took several deep breaths as he tried to pull himself together, but he felt disjointed and disconnected from his body, almost like he was watching himself from above or on film.

He knew what he needed to do. Unsteadily, he pushed himself away from the counter and made his way upstairs. The Siren was calling him home.

The climb was difficult; his vision continued to go grey and fuzzy at the edges and he felt like he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. More than once he had to stop, swaying precariously on his feet.

After what seemed like an eternity, he found himself at the top of the staircase. Erratically, he made his way to the bedroom and managed to walk across the room, his feet hampered by the thick, plush carpeting.

Finally, he was at the door to the en suite. He pushed open the door and closed it behind him, leaning heavily against the wooden door. 

Mycroft’s skin was damp and clammy; he could feel his dress shirt sticking to him in places where he had been perspiring. He closed his eyes and breathed for a moment, hoping, willing this to pass.

It did not pass. He risked a glance in the mirror and was horrified by what he saw. He was pale and haggard, his clothing bedraggled and askew. 

Mycroft’s hair, normally formally held down, had come loose and a rogue curl had escaped loosely across his damp forehead. His skin had the pallor of the seriously unwell and there were dark, grey circles under his eyes.

Disgusted, he turned away. This was what he had become, a weak, snivelling middle aged bureaucrat unable to pull himself together.

He was unravelling and tears made their way unbidden to his eyes again as his failures passed before his eyes. Mummy was right. He should have been better, done better, done more. What good was he if he couldn’t keep Sherlock safe?

Mycroft wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and made his way to the sink. He opened the drawer beneath and slid his fingers along the underside of it.

His long fingers came across the blade he had taped to the underside. With care, he removed the tape and the small piece of metal fell into the palm of his hand. 

Closing the drawer, he rose to his full height and once again regarded his appearance in the mirror- all of it was insignificant now.

He somehow made it to the edge of the bathtub and lowered himself down. His vision blurred again and he braced himself on the edge; the blade biting into his palm, but he barely recognised it.

Again, he closed his eyes.

When he finally opened them, his lashes were damp.

Slowly, carefully, he put the blade down. And then with the same care and reverence, he unbuttoned his waistcoat, fingers trembling, fumbling over the buttons at first, but soon they began to be undone with ease. He removed the garment, folded it neatly, and set it atop the sink.

Next, he slid his braces down and over his shoulders. He then unfastened his trousers and carefully removed them. Once he folded them, they joined the waistcoat.

Seeing his carefully bandaged thigh, he had to blink back tears again as he thought of Greg’s care in dressing his wounds. He bit down hard on his lower lip and blinked several times.

Once he regained his composure, he removed the bandage. Eight red, angry lines stood out against the milky white of his skin.

There had always been a reason he had chosen his right thigh all those years ago. He made the cuts high up enough where no one would ever see and where he could always proclaim a childhood incident, if anyone ever saw the scars. But it was the proximity to the femoral artery that had helped him make the choice all those decades ago.

All those years ago- when the decisions were made without him fully understanding the future consequences. Granted, no one could have foreseen Moriarty and the repercussions therein, especially what happened between him and Eurus. These were certainly not scenarios that he and Uncle Rudy had theorised when the plans were first put into place.

And here he was, forced to face the full ramifications of them all. The reasons why Sherlock was an addict. The reasons why his parents would learn their youngest child was not long dead and buried after all.

When he picked up the razor blade this last and final time, he found his hands were steady. Taking a deep breath, he made the cut without hesitation.

The blood ran a deep crimson down his leg and down onto the tiled floor. He watched it as it flowed and dripped until he grew cold and weak. His eyes closed as he slumped down to the floor, slipping into unconsciousness.

His last thoughts were of Greg’s warm brown eyes and his rough, calloused hands on his thigh.


	8. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the penultimate chapter and hopefully I haven't kept you all on tenterhooks too long. 
> 
> Warning for sexual content.

Mycroft woke chilled and damp, coated in a cold sweat. The only thing that had carried over from his dream was Greg's warmth and it was very, very real and tangible. Greg's body was pressed against his, and his partner's thigh was draped across his bandaged one. He was alive, and he was most certainly glad of that fact, in the light of day.

That being said, he was still shaken; the dream had unsettled him. Mycroft breathed slowly; inhaling through his mouth. He could still feel his heart racing as if he had run several miles quickly on his treadmill. He continued the slow breathing, and focused on Greg's comforting presence until the dream, rather the nightmare, was pushed aside and into the recesses of his mind.

It had been so vivid, so real. And that frightened him.

Because now he had more to lose than ever before.

Mycroft laid there silently in the early morning light, watching the shadows change position as the day broke. He thought about the hurt that he had been feeling and the pain that he had caused Greg. He had never meant to hurt Greg, of course. He had been so out of control of his emotions after what had happened and felt he had no other recourse than to revert to former coping mechanisms. He knew now that he was wrong; that he was no longer alone in the world and had someone he could talk to when he was feeling like he might spiral out of control.

He turned his head to look at Greg, smiling fondly. Mycroft felt his eyes fill up with tears at the love he felt for the older man and the life they had built with one another.

 

\----------------

 

Sometime later, he felt Greg stir beside him as he woke. "Morning," Greg murmured.

"Good morning," Mycroft whispered.

Blinking sleepily, Greg adjusted his position so that he could see his lover. Mycroft looked sleep wrecked; his eyes were red, his lashes damp. "Oh, love," Greg gasped.

Mycroft felt such an intense longing for him at that moment. He loved Greg with all his heart and he wished there was a way that Greg could see into his soul to see how deep that love was. Mycroft moaned, and pulled Greg closer, kissing him as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it did.

Greg returned the kiss equally as passionately, feeling himself grow hard immediately. He pressed himself against Mycroft, and soon felt his lover's hand slip down inside his bottoms, stroking him eagerly. Greg threw back his head, moaning in pleasure and Mycroft took that as a sign to continue his ministrations, not pausing in his eager stroking to begin to nuzzle Greg's neck.

Greg hissed in pleasure, but he wanted more. He wanted Mycroft; he wanted to feel him and taste him. He pulled back; Mycroft giving him a questioning look. As soon as he saw Greg start to remove his clothing, he also pulled back and did the same, hurriedly removing his shirt and pyjama bottoms. 

Finally, they were both naked, and Greg pulled Mycroft to him, tenderly stroking his cheek. Mycroft's eyes filled with tears again and he felt them spill over as they began to kiss again.

Mycroft let out a choked sob as Greg gently let him sink back down onto the bed. "I love you," Greg said softly, brushing the tears away. "I love you." 

Overcome with emotion, Mycroft could only nod, reaching for Greg's hand and entwined their fingers. Greg laid down beside Mycroft, who immediately turned toward him. Now, that they were both on their sides, Greg took Mycroft's hard length into his other hand, feeling it twitch and respond to his touch. Mycroft melted into the touch, moaning. He pressed his forehead to Greg's and their eyes met.

In that moment it seemed they both wanted _more_ , wanted each other, wanted to feel _alive_. Greg moved, turning them both, so that Mycroft was beneath him, his eyes filled with want. Greg rocked his hips against Mycroft's; their erections rutting against one another. The friction was heavenly, and they continued touching, their breathing becoming more and more frantic. Sweat beaded their brows but they paid it no heed.

Pressed groin to groin, they were the only two that mattered in the world, there in their bed cocoon. Greg pressed a kiss to Mycroft's lips and then began to slowly lick his way down to Mycroft's chest, flicking his tongue out over his nipples, licking and teasing. He could feel Mycroft respond, arching into the sensations. He felt his lover's hand also reach down, urging Greg to pick up the pace of his stroking. 

They both began to breathe more erratically, as they raced each other towards climax. Rocking beneath Greg, Mycroft moaned and thrashed as he reached orgasm, spilling over their joined hands. Urged on by Mycroft's exuberance, Greg found himself quickly climaxing as well. Spent, he rested his head on Mycroft's chest, breathing heavily. 

Mycroft rested his hand on Greg's back, gently tracing patterns on his skin, while he waited for his heart rate to decline. He pressed a kiss to Greg's head, smiling into the silver strands.

 

\---------

They lay there together afterwards, sticky and clammy with sweat. It took Greg a bit of extra effort, but he finally extracted himself, went into the ensuite, and came back with a damp flannel.

Gently, he cleaned Mycroft off, touching, revering him as if he were a priceless vase in a museum. And he was, Greg thought, priceless.

Greg sank back down beside Mycroft. He tenderly brushed his fingers down the side of Mycroft's cheek and then leaned in and kissed him softly. After, he pulled away slightly, so he could look at Mycroft.

"I love you. I love you so much." Greg took a deep breath attempting to reign in his emotions.

"Please- promise me you'll come to me if you feel like that again. Just come to me, no questions asked. I'll hold you, I'll do anything . . ." Greg's voice broke and he let out an anguished sob.

Mycroft pressed his forehead to Greg's and nodded, overcome with emotion himself and unable to speak.

Mycroft didn't have anything to lose before.

He had everything to lose now.


	9. Epilogue

The wounds soon healed on Mycroft’s leg, leaving just the faintest hint of scarring. The wounds on his heart would take much longer to heal . . . if they ever did. However, Mycroft felt confident they would, in time.

He soon learned that when he was feeling out of control (and there were a lot of situations post-Sherrinford that elicited that response) that Greg was indeed there to help and his offer to hold him was genuine.

Mycroft cried that first time; he nearly begged and pleaded for the pain, for the oblivion and peace that it brought. But Greg wrapped him up in his warm, strong arms and held him. He talked to Mycroft; about past cases, ridiculous situations Sherlock had gotten into, his own childhood and teenage escapades until Mycroft was just focusing on Greg’s voice, his steady breathing and his heartbeat.

Soon, Mycroft’s pulse would stop racing and his breathing would slow and he would slowly come back into himself.

It was easier each time after that. 

 

 

And as time went on all of Mycroft’s scars began to heal, even the ones on his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't quite sure how to end this, if I'm honest. I wanted it to be as positive as possible despite my current mindset which doesn't really mesh with that. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you all for reading and for all the comments you've left. They have been most appreciated. <3


End file.
